I used to think healing only happened in the warmth of a hot yoga studio. The sticky mat beneath your feet, the half light, the flexible floors. The people around you breathing.
So. Much. Breathing.
I wanted it to be only in the warm and fuzzy places of my mind. Like pulling on a soft sweater in the chill of the morning, I wanted healing to be easy.
I wanted healing to be the familiarity of my coffee cup. It’s supposed to feel good, right? Like coming home after a long night.
How would you know that you’re working? If it always felt light.
Healing is the in between and the extreme. Healing is becoming. Healing is believing. It’s sitting in church just so you feel like you could pray because, everyone else is doing it. Healing is frightening. Healing is beauty. Healing is all the scars you never wanted anyway. And it is this becoming that we are working toward from the day we are born.
Healing is the muse. Healing is throwing a bunch of shit against the wall and seeing what sticks. Healing is soft light. Healing is music. Healing is secret passageways and staircases.
Healing is the sound of you entering the room when I’ve been missing you all night. It’s the long way home when you don’t know why.
I think healing happens when there are plants.
Sometimes, healing is like fireworks. Like sparklers on the 4th of July.
Relax your shoulders. Feel your breath. Sink into the peace of innocence. That we could dip into the pond of existence and come back whole. Come back healed. That our psyches could feel.
Healing: the process of making or becoming sound or healthy again. To be whole.
Healing is elusive. It moves to its own rhythm. You wake up one day and don’t recognize yourself anymore. How did we get here, in a house next to a house next to a house. This house. The one with the open door.